


Confessions in a Punt

by Eigon



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: M/M, Oxford, Quotations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:02:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28813872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eigon/pseuds/Eigon
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale have taken a punt out on the Isis, and are comparing notes about their memories of Oxford.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	Confessions in a Punt

"It's a challenge, tempting scholars," Crowley said. "They care about such obscure stuff, so the usual lust, gluttony and so on doesn't really cut it. A temptation to cheat in scholarship is pretty hard to pull off," he added, with a touch of false modesty.  


"I dare say you got a commendation for it," Aziraphale said drily. "I spent some time drinking in the Eagle and Child, listening in to the Inklings. I may possibly have encouraged Jack Lewis and his friend Tolkien in their writing endeavours." He sat back and laced his fingers together across his tummy in a self-satisfied way.  


"You're claiming Narnia and Middle-earth?" Crowley spluttered in mock outrage, "when all I can muster is a couple of fraudulent footnotes and a don that turned to drink?"  


Aziraphale smiled smugly.  


Crowley viciously threw a piece of sandwich at a duck. The duck made an annoyed quacking noise, but still turned and ate the bread. Then he picked up the pole again and began to punt them downriver.  


"D'you suppose these ducks are any relation to the ones in St James' Park?" Crowley asked, after a while.  


"How fleeting are all human passions compared to the massive continuity of ducks," said Aziraphale.  


"That a quotation?"  


"Gaudy Night, by Dorothy L Sayers," Aziraphale said. "Her characters were punting on this exact stretch of the river at the time, except they'd tied up under a willow tree."  


"There's a willow tree over there," Crowley pointed out, leaning on the punt pole.  


"Is that a temptation?" Aziraphale asked. He smiled. "Shall I be Harriet Vane or Lord Peter Wimsey?" He paused, thinking. "No, Lord Peter goes to sleep, and he was doing the punting, so that's definitely you. And Harriet reads a book while Peter is taking a nap, so that's definitely me."  


Crowley sighed. "Is there any alcohol in this scenario of yours, angel?"  


"Only tea, I'm afraid, and sandwiches – and ducks."  


Crowley brought them up with a flourish beneath the willow tree, and drove his punting pole into the bottom of the river to tie up to. He miracled a half bottle of champagne and two flutes to go with the remaining egg and cress sandwiches in the picnic basket.  


Aziraphale had miracled a paperback copy of Gaudy Night, and was flicking through it for the punting scene.  


"I'm not going to sleep, angel," Crowley said, lounging back with the champagne flute in one hand.  


"You don't need to. I was only making reference to the scene – ah! Here it is! ...'he relapsed into silence, while she studied his half-averted face.'"  


Crowley turned his head to look out across the river. "Like this?"  


"That will do admirably, my dear. 'Considered generally, as a facade, it was by this time tolerably familiar to her....'"  


"I should think so, after all this time, angel!"  


"'...but now she saw details, magnified as it were by some glass in her own mind.'" Aziraphale looked up from the book and directly at Crowley, who still gazed out across the river away from him. "...the fine scroll-work of the ear, the deep red of the hair tucked in flowing curls behind it, the complex curves of the tattoo done in black and red...."  


Crowley turned and scowled at him. "That's not quoting from the book, angel," he said flatly.  


"'He looked up; and she was instantly scarlet, as though she had been dipped in boiling water,'" Aziraphale went on, quoting again. "'Then the mist cleared. His eyes were riveted on the manuscript again, but he breathed as though he had been running.'"  


Aziraphale reached out to take Crowley's hand, and put the book aside. He had read it so often that he didn't need the text now. "'So, thought Harriet, it has happened. But it happened long ago. The only new thing that has happened is that now I have got to admit it to myself. I have known it for some time....'"  


Crowley pushed the picnic basket out of the way and hauled himself onto the seat beside Aziraphale. "Angel, if this scene doesn't end with them shagging frantically on the bottom boards of the punt...."  


Aziraphale tossed back the last of his champagne, and put the flute in the basket. Crowley had already disposed of his champagne flute in a manner Aziraphale had not noticed.  


"They didn't," he said, beaming, "but...." Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a long and hungry kiss, as Crowley pushed him down onto the bottom boards of the punt....


End file.
